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<title>Days in the Sun (or The Rather Appalling but Not So Shocking Tales of Otto Scarbaach: The Trollhunter) by seagullandcroissant</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472359">Days in the Sun (or The Rather Appalling but Not So Shocking Tales of Otto Scarbaach: The Trollhunter)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagullandcroissant/pseuds/seagullandcroissant'>seagullandcroissant</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons), Trollhunters - Daniel Kraus &amp; Guillermo del Toro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AU, Canon-Typical Violence, Changelings, Changelings (Trollhunters) Have Issues, Days in the Sun Au, Drama, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Other, Parent Blinky (Trollhunters), Rarepair, Trollhunter Otto Scaarbach, Trollhunter!Otto AU, fanfic rewrite, soft reboot, trollhunters au, ∠( ᐛ 」∠) hi - i don't know what i'm doing but welcome~</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:56:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>995</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472359</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/seagullandcroissant/pseuds/seagullandcroissant</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Otto Scaarbach lives an atypical life.</p><p> Grand Commandant, Assistant-Supervisor of Delivery and Receiving, and most important of all, the first, and most renowned polymorph in the Janus Order -- Otto believes he's achieved *something* at least through his changeling career. Arriving to Arcadia, at the heels of a new dawn with Gunmar’s return, he's determined to see the arrival and construction of Killahead Bridge through to the very end — without interruptions or hiccups.</p><p>That is, till the real hiccup happens, and suddenly, Otto finds himself being chosen as the next Trollhunter with Amulet in hand, speaking his name. </p><p>And, in an instant, he has to dawn another mask — another task — and another risk to keep his newest secret under wraps.</p><p>But hey — it’s nothing he can’t handle? Right?</p><p>Right…?</p><p>{A soft reboot of the original fanfiction: Days in the Sun}</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aaarrrgghh &amp; Toby Domzalski, Aaarrrgghh/Blinkous "Blinky" Galadrigal, Goblins &amp; Otto Scaarbach, Jim Lake Jr. &amp; Walter Strickler | Stricklander, Jim Lake Jr./Claire Nuñez, Nomura &amp; Otto Scaarbach, Otto Scaarbach &amp; Walter Strickler | Stricklander</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Days in the Sun (or The Rather Appalling but Not So Shocking Tales of Otto Scarbaach: The Trollhunter)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello - I am alive.</p><p>First things first, a huge HUGE thanks to Babblish (found at @BabbleKing on A03) to proofreading this chapter - he kindly offered to proof it when the idea of a soft-reboot came up in convo - and his work is amazing amazing AMAZING - please check him out. Thanks is not enough to say what i wish to! :)</p><p>This will be soft-reboot for the orginial fic, Days in the Sun. With the near arrival of Wizards, and looking back over the time I worked over the original fic, I wanted to write it more in a tone I have now. </p><p>I hope you enjoy this little start -- there is plenty more to come!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>Somewhere in North America </b> — <b>August 14, 1945: The End of the Second World War</b></p><p> </p><p>It started as a whisper, in that quiet, stuffy darkness.</p><p>Quiet, that is, save for the party outside the locked set of study doors the two found themselves behind, reaching for each other like the world was about to end — and now, in the spoils of the war, they might have fooled themselves that it almost had.</p><p>The two silhouettes fumbled near that desk, thier lips colliding, sloppy and wet and tasting of champagne and cherry wine on respective tongues. Fireworks went off somewhere in the distance, but in the moment, all they could focus on was the buttons of the other’s vest — and the fastest way to get them undone. </p><p>From the way they interacted — the world would’ve been fooled. The pair had known each other in-person for less than an evening, yet they kissed like many sweethearts now, returning home from war, sweeping the other off their feet, proposing, marrying — all the things of young reckless love. </p><p>No — this was the product of a rather lavish evening, filled with lavish food, and even more lavish wine. </p><p>The guest had sought him out the moment of arrival. He described himself as tall, thin, and handsome in his latest letter  — quite a way to narrow it down in the growing crowd with only the memory of a photograph as an aide. The other had failed to mention he’d be found already buzzed, of course, but that was the way of Professor Earl Carey.</p><p>The guest was lucky to have the advantage of pleasant surprises, and furthermore, the surprise of where he came from. It was not everyone’s cup of tea, especially now, but the man had caught the other’s glint and prolonged stare across the room before the formalities.</p><p>Professor Earl Carey had tastes to satisfy. </p><p>The man had been careful when to speak, and how, and where — but it had worked. No longer was he just made of parchment and ink and the words between — now, he was something to be desired.</p><p>The guest felt his backside hit the desk, and he caught himself from falling down, breaking out of his spell. He watched as the other fumbled with the brass buttons, felt his smile go crooked, as his hands settled on the tall, thin hips, pausing him. </p><p>“<em>Careful</em>… it’s imported from Germany...” he spoke, the matching accent rolled off his tongue, like honey on morning toast and tea. </p><p>He jumped at the next round of rough kissing from the Professor, inexperienced, excitable, and boring, the guest opening his eyes and looking out the window instead. Their noses touched, cold things with the coming fall, but their faces were red and flushed beneath trimmed beards that fought each other. The man’s surprise only heightened when he felt the same cold hands get impatient and rip open the jacket front, only able to watch as a button flew across the room, bounced off a statue of a cherub, and rolled under a piece of the study’s furniture, out of sight.</p><p><em> Impatient and inconsiderate… </em>The guest mused as his hands came up to touch the Professor’s face, pushing it gently, but firmly, back and away. </p><p>“Before we continue this lovely night with such a gracious host…” the man purred, taking his pinky to push up the Professor's fogged glasses. “I would like to see one more thing…”</p><p>“Oh…?” the soft voice of the Professor asked, his head lifting up, but still resting in that grip, “and what would that be?”</p><p>“Your collection…” the guest purred, his hand snaking down, stopping at the partially exposed collarbone, “after all… it is one of the most extensive of it’s type… is it not?”<br/>
<br/>
The Professor reached up to push up his own glasses then, a look crossing his face — pride. </p><p>“Our letters… I had nearly forgotten in the… hm… <em>excitement</em>… you’d shown quite an interest…” Earl’s voice hummed, tilting his head, “I take it, you care to see it first? Before we… continue our private party…” Fingers found the other’s lips, trailing, holding them gently between his fingers, “it’s secluded… quiet… I have a key…”</p><p>The eyes behind the Professor’s glasses trailed, and the man had to use his restraint not to roll his eyes as he went for another sloppy kiss, tasting the other’s wine. </p><p>The Professor was a fool in the art of love and in the knowledge of what he truly possessed, as most men were. </p><p>He would not see it’s value until it was gone.</p><p>“Of <em> course. </em>” He purred, returning the gesture with a soft laugh, “Of course, that sounds fine to me. We wouldn’t want to be interrupted, would we? Come… show me…”</p><p>The guest offered his elbow, and the Professor took it in his arm as they helped themselves to the french double-doors, and the hedge garden that lay before their gaze. </p><p>It wasn’t until morning when Professor Earl Carey was found by an unfortunate maid. </p><p>The woman had shrieked in the garden, so much so that it woke the elderly neighbour and his wife with her yapping dog, calling the authorities with more determination than ever that there was something very very wrong next door. </p><p>The pair of detectives had ruled foul play, once they had found other footprints at the scene, signs of struggle, and the fact Professor Earl Carey had been stabbed to death on the spot, his suit ribbons, his glasses broken, and his face one of silent horror, captured in time. Theft was listed after the discovery of the broken door of the private museum and an outlined spot where something big had once sat, hauled away into the night via the same singular footprints, despite the clear amount of effort for one, human man. </p><p>In life, Professor Earl Carey had been a man of many downfalls.</p><p>He’d been a fool to believe that the intoxicating taste of Otto Scaarbach wasn’t one of them. </p>
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